Kiss Kiss by Roald Dahl

was with dirty white paint, but to Mr
Boggis it was a dealer’s dream. He knew, as does every other
dealer in Europe and America, that among the most celebrated
and coveted examples of eighteenth-century English furniture
in existence are the three famous pieces known as “The
Chippendale Commodes.” He knew their history backwards—that
the first was “discovered” in 1920, in a house at Moreton-in-Marsh,
and was sold at Sotheby’s the same year; that the
other two turned up in the same auction rooms a year later,
both coming out of Raynham Hall, Norfolk. They all fetched
enormous prices. He couldn’t quite remember the exact figure
for the first one, or even the second, but he knew for certain
that the last one to be sold had fetched thirty-nine hundred
guineas. And that was in 1921! Today the same piece would
surely be worth ten thousand pounds. Some man, Mr Boggis
couldn’t remember his name, had made a study of these
commodes fairly recently and had proved that all three must have
come from the same workshop, for the veneers were all from
the same log, and the same set of templates had been used in
the construction of each. No invoices had been found for any
of them, but all the experts were agreed that these three commodes

could have been executed only by Thomas Chippendale
himself, with his own hands, at the most exalted period in his
career.
      
And here, Mr Boggis kept telling himself as he peered
cautiously through the crack in his fingers, here was the fourth
Chippendale Commode! And he had found it! He would be
rich! He would also be famous! Each of the other three was
known throughout the furniture world by a special name—The
Chastleton Commode, The First Raynham Commode, The
Second Raynham Commode. This one would go down in
history as The Boggis Commode! Just imagine the faces of
the boys up there in London when they got a look at it
tomorrow morning! And the luscious offers coming in from
the big fellows over in the West End—Frank Partridge,
Mallett, Jetley, and the rest of them! There would be a
picture of it in The Times , and it would say, “The very fine
Chippendale Commode which was recently discovered by Mr
Cyril Boggis, a London dealer. . . .” Dear God, what a stir he
was going to make!
      
This one here, Mr Boggis thought, was almost exactly
similar to the Second Raynham Commode. (All three, the
Chastleton and the two Raynhams, differed from one another
in a number of small ways.) It was a most impressive handsome
affair, built in the French rococo style of Chippendale’s
Directoire period, a kind of large fat chest-of-drawers set upon
four carved and fluted legs that raised it about a foot from
the ground. There were six drawers in all, two long ones in
the middle and two shorter ones on either side. The serpentine
front was magnificently ornamented along the top and sides
and bottom, and also vertically between each set of drawers,
with intricate carvings of festoons and scrolls and clusters.
The brass handles, although partly obscured by white paint,
appeared to be superb. It was, of course, a rather “heavy”
piece, but the design had been executed with such elegance
and grace that the heaviness was in no way offensive.
      
“How’re you feeling now?” Mr Boggis heard someone
saying.
      
“Thank you, thank you, I’m much better already. It passes
quickly. My doctor says it’s nothing to worry about really so
long as I rest for a few minutes whenever it happens. Ah yes,”
he said, raising himself slowly to his feet. “That’s better. I’m
all right now.”
      
A trifle unsteadily, he began to move around the room
examining the furniture, one piece at a time, commenting
upon it briefly. He could see at once that apart from the
commode it was a very poor lot.
      
“Nice oak table,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s not old enough
to be of any interest. Good comfortable chairs, but quite modern, yes,
quite modern.